when you are close to me i shiver
by pendulii
Summary: She is so lovely, and he wishes so much that she would open her eyes and look at him. Fit her fingers in the spaces between his. Anything to end this – whatever it is. JackxOlderSophie


**when you are close to me i shiver**

He watches her sleep, quietly; he's as still as he'll ever get.

Because he's not sure why he's here. Watching this girl with the pretty hair and the pretty eyelashes and the pretty lips that make his chest ache. In his three hundred and twenty years of being an Immortal, he's never stayed with a person for so long just for the sake of being with them.

Especially someone who didn't believe in him.

She doesn't see him. She never will, instead watching the dreams that play out inside her eyelids.

He hopes that they are bright, and warm. At the very least, he hopes the depths of her subconscious are blank and painless, even on the nights when Sandman doesn't send his gold trails to her. Her expression in sleep is usually one of contentment.

Even while something tightens in his chest as he looks at her, the peace she exudes makes him more light-hearted than he understands why.

The little blonde girl at the Warren. Bunny's Ankle-Biter. The one who refused to unlock her iron grip from his neck when he tried to lay her down in her bed.

Sophie Bennett.

She isn't so little anymore. Years have passed since she left her last tooth under her pillow, and since she looked at Jack in the eye and played with Bunny and begged North to take her on a ride in his sleigh. Years of his bringing snow and ice to her little town, frosting her window pane with intricate patterns when the rest of her neighbourhood was barely cold yet, letting her know he was always there.

But he couldn't stay. As more and more children began to believe in him, he found himself busier than ever, caught up in the laughter and delight of children who loved nothing more than to throw snowballs at each other, to race down snowy hilltops and lie down in the white blanket and leave their own mark.

He found himself visiting the Bennett siblings less and less. For no particular reason – it just happened. And then one winter - one day, just like _that_ - she passed right through him, running snowball-in-hand towards the older brother whose faith somehow refused to wane (he still grinned as he saw Jack shoot past, quickly turning back to his sister).

And that should have been that.

She is human. She is distracted, she forgets. She is mortal.

He is not. He never did forget.

He supposes that's why he's still there, when there's really no rational reason for it. She's not a child; she doesn't need him to bring her Fun. There are plenty of children that do, who have faith in his existence (_I think, therefore I am - _or rather_, _they _think, therefore I am__) _and he does not _need _her to believe.

And yet…going by his near constant presence by her side, he does.

He tries not to remember the wave of nausea that washed over his stomach that day. When the little-not-so-little girl looked at the space where he stood and saw nothing. He did throw a snowball at her, believing there was some other explanation for the way her eyes skated right over him (_there had to be, there had to be_) because there was no way she couldn't see him anymore.

There was no way.

And there was no reason that denying it should hurt so much. Because it wasn't true (o_h__,__ how he wishes he could convince __them both_).

He knows, deep down, he's only telling lies (_like always_).

In spite of that, he hopes hopes hopes that even the tiniest microcosm of faith remains and so, now, he waits every morning for her to wake (he _makes_ time, now). For that moment between sleeping and wakefulness, when she'll open her eyes and her mind will be clear and unguarded.

He's always there for that moment. Praying, praying that she will see him for more than just a second.

And then that moment passes, and he's alone again.

A sudden inhalation from the sleeping figure draws him out of his introspection, and his attention is drawn once again to the subject of his thoughts – not that he'd ever taken his eyes off her. She is so lovely, and he wishes so much that she would open her eyes and look at him. Look at _him. _Fit her fingers in the spaces between his. Anything to end this – whatever it is. This heaviness in his chest. This inability to be content in spite of the millions of children who believe, all because of this one adult. If he could wake her up and ask her to explain to him why, he would (long ago he'd learned that there was no point in asking the Moon, since she never gave an answer - it would just be a beggar's prayer, really). He brushes his finger across her cheek, trying to pretend he doesn't notice it fade through her skin.

Like it always does.

She exhales softly at the touch she doesn't feel, eyes moving rapidly behind her eyelids. And then – suddenly – _he thinks his heart may have stopped beating__, again_– she murmurs 'Jack.'

He can't breathe. His muscles are locked with a tension that he's not aware of because in that moment he sees nothing except the girl and hears nothing except the silence that follows. But she said it. He heard it. She said his name. _She said his name._

'_Jack.'_

The lump in his throat combined with an inexplicable need to laugh produces some strange noise that escapes him, and he puts his hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle it. Heart pounding against his ribs, wide electric-blue eyes remain glued to her as a mantra runs through his head – _she said my name, she __said my name__, she said my name._

_She remembers. She _believes.

It takes a couple of attempts, but he manages to force his stiff muscles to work and bring him slowly closer to her, breath still bated. She's mumbling again; icy fingers reach forward again, and he almost hates how scared he is that they'll pass through her as they always do.

His fingers shake as they reach her skin. There's warmth emanating from her flushed cheeks, and he skims them and pushes her fringe from her eyes, not quite believing his own senses until she moves her head slightly – _in response_ – and inhales sharply.

Sophie Bennett believes in him, and he can't quite contain himself. Frost is beginning to seep in from the corners of the room and weaves a complex, meandering design on the ceiling that he doesn't even notice. The crackling sound of ice forming is so familiar to him that it hardly registers that it comes from all around him.

She shivers beneath her duvet. He shivers for entirely different reasons.

It's only when the walls begin to glitter and cast quiet light in all directions that he snaps his head up, mouth dropping open as he takes in his inadvertent creation. The girl has curled into the foetal position, almost burying herself under her duvet and Jack sees her breath coming out in puffs before her. He almost feels guilty that he's turned her room into a sparkling little ice cave (how long has he been standing there, petrified?) - but there isn't much room for regret when his mind is already whirling with the fact that some part of her, even if it is only her subconscious, knows he's here.

He stands on calcified legs and wills them to take him to her window, pulling it open with some effort since it's frozen to the window pane. His heart feels inexplicably buoyant and it's so much easier to breathe, for reasons he won't pretend to understand, but he'll take it anyway. He leaps into the night.

The next morning Sophie wakes up to an extra blanket on her bed and an imperceptible glimmer on her walls. Outside, a layer of snow thicker than her little village of Burgess has ever seen covers the ground and rooftops and trees, and for a moment she's struck by the feeling that this snow is for her. There's barely time for her to wonder why she would think that before the feeling passes and she's left admiring its beauty. Winter always was her favourite season.

Jack hovers outside her window, and smiles as she looks through him at his handiwork.

He'll wait for her. He has forever.

* * *

I dragged my friend to go watch Rise of the Guardians with me and I've thought of little else all day. I love how beautiful it was, aesthetically and in its storyline and its characters and – GAH.

So while my love for it is high, I figured I should strike while the iron is hot. It's now nearly 2 in the morning and I've been writing this instead of studying for impending doom (otherwise known as exams), so please let me know what you thought about it. I know I've abused italics and parentheses… if you think there're areas for improvement (and I'm sure there are plenty of them) let me know! Concrit=love :3

Oh, and by the way, HAPPY NOT-THE-APOCALYPSE. Some people around the world must be feeling a tad silly right now.


End file.
